


Record

by J_Q



Series: TIMELESS [4]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2018-12-31 23:06:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12143076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Q/pseuds/J_Q
Summary: Part 4 of Timeless.The point of Part 1 was to REWIND Mickey and Ian’s relationship until 7x11 didn’t happen, Part 2 was to FAST FORWARD through their life together after hooking up for the first time in 7x11 and Part 3 was to PAUSE briefly at certain moments in that life. Now Part 4 will RECORD, through this alternate life of theirs, the reasons why Mickey and Ian are end game.





	1. Reason #1 - They Fit Together

“What you and I have makes me free.”

 

 

“How’s it going in there?” Ian asks from outside the men’s fitting room at Macy’s.

“How do you think it’s fucking going in here? I hate fucking shopping for clothes. What’s wrong with the clothes I got, man? They cover my body just fucking fine. I ain’t a goddamn runway model.”

Ian can hear grunting and heavy breathing which he assumes means Mickey is pulling clothing on and off while he complains. He wants to place his cheek against the fitting room door and just listen to Mickey rant all day, imagining bringing him piles of clothes to try on as he gets more and more irritated and verbal about his emotions. Ian knows he would have a hard time explaining to people, even his therapist, how much he needs this prickly, frustrated ball of fury in his life. How his expressive nature is an outlet for Ian’s need for predictable discipline.

He swears he’d never let Mickey near a therapist for fear he’d work out some issues that would put a stop to all his bitching. In all honesty, Ian probably doesn’t want to discuss his bitchy Mickey fetish with his own therapist for fear she’d try to work out some of his issues. No way did he want to stop needing bitchy Mickey like he needs air. No way did he want Mickey to stop needing Ian to help channel his emotions.

Whatever the cause of it, he is currently experiencing that bizarre combination of lust-filled caregiver that his grumpy husband brings out in him. A conflicted jumble of emotion that results in an almost unpleasant constriction in his chest and a flipping in his stomach. Healthy relationships were over-rated. There’s a freedom in knowing your dysfunction is functional when it’s with the right person.

“Are you there, man? Don’t ask me a fucking question if you ain't gonna wait around to hear the goddamn answer?”

“I’m here.”

“Yeah? What’d I ask ya then?”

“Um.”

“That’s what I thought, motherfucker. I said these shitty pants are too fucking small. Did you get them in the goddamn kid’s department?”

Ian doesn’t dare laugh at Mickey’s choice of words. Instead he steps closer to the door and says calmly, “Hey.”

Mickey immediately calms in response to Ian’s tone, “What?”

“I love you.”

On one side of the thin fitting room door, Ian’s hand is pressed to the plastic number 2 attached to the door, an assortment of men’s clothing draped over his arm and a goofy smile on his face. On the other side of the door, Mickey pauses in his attempt to zip up the too small pants; his bare torso turns toward the door while his head tilts to the left and his bottom lip sneaks under his teeth.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, get me some fucking pants that fit then, Ian!”

And Ian wonders in that moment if Mickey knows how badly he needs his cranky husband.

“I’ve got a whole stack of shit here for you if you’d open the door, brat.”

The handle turns and Mickey’s head appears, “Why you gotta call me that all time, huh?” He releases the door handle and turns back into the fitting room.

“Oh, those pants are tight.” Ian looks left and right and with the coast clear, steps into the fitting room, closing the door behind him. Mickey lifts his eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. As he moves to undo the button of the micro houndstooth dress pants he’s squeezed into, Ian bats his hands away. “Stop. I like ‘em tight.”

“Don’t I know it,” he smirks.

Ian places the clothes he’s carrying on the corner bench seat without taking his eyes off Mickey. “Hi.”

“Hello?” Mickey questions, his second eyebrow joins the first pretending to be hopelessly exasperated.

“You need some help with your clothing, huh?”

“Not that kind of help, man.” Mickey narrows his eyes now. “I ain’t fucking you in this fitting room.”

“Of course not, Mick. What would give you that idea?”

“Um, your face.”

“I’m just here to help you find an outfit for Mandy’s wedding that matches mine since you left it to the last minute.”

“Oh, yeah, sure that’s all you’re here for. I ain’t an idiot, Ian.”

Placing his hands on Mickey’s hips, Ian swivels them until they are looking in the mirror. “Yes, definitely snug in the, um, crotch,” he concludes.

While Mickey chews the side of his cheek, Ian smooths the material on either side of his semi hard dick. “How about the ass? Turn to the side.” Again he maneuvers Mickey until they have a profile view of Mickey’s ass in the tight dress pants. “Yes, definitely tight. Very, very tight,” he offers his agreement as his hand brushes over one of Mickey’s ass cheeks coming to rest at the top of his thighs.

“I ain’t fucking you in this change room, Ian.” More for his own benefit than Ian’s as it comes out barely audible.

“Oh dear. Looks like your pants are getting tighter. Let’s get you out of them,” Ian murmurs. For a third time, he shifts Mickey’s oddly pliable body until he’s facing the mirror, Ian behind him. Moving his hands from Mickey’s hips and slowly rubbing along the underside of the waistband, he grasps the button. Ian keeps his gaze lowered but he can see Mickey’s face in his peripheral vision and Mickey is staring at Ian’s hands.

He gives the button a tug, then pulls the tab on the zipper down. “There we go. That must feel so much better,” he whispers directly into Mickey’s ear.

“I’m not—”

“fucking me in this fitting room? Course not. Mandy can’t have her bridesmen’s suits clashing. Try to keep your mind outta the gutter and focus on your outfit,” Ian admonishes. He spreads the material around the fly of the pants. “Let’s get you out of these.”

His hands slide inside the trousers along Mickey’s pelvis and over his hips pulling the soft material with him. When he yanks a little harder to get the material over Mickey’s ass, the front of his fitted boxers pulls down revealing the tip of what is shaping up to be an impressive hard-on. “Whoops, sorry Mick.”

“Sorry, my ass,” he retorts daring Ian to make a sassy comment. But Ian just hums in agreement.

“Seriously, get out of those pants. We are not giving the world a free show. That,” Ian says motioning to Mickey’s groin, “and that,” motioning to Mickey’s ass, “are _not_ on display.” Ian turns away to select a pair of charcoal wool slightly fitted trousers. “Try these.”

Mickey is standing in only his boxers, arms crossed, giving Ian the eye. “Why you always wearing tight shit? Showing off all your goods in your hipster wear.”

Ian hands Mickey the pants with a pointed look to put them on. “I’m more, shall we say, worldly than you, babe. I know when a guy is coming on to me and I know how to deflect it.”

“Wait! What? Guys are coming on to you?” Mickey has one leg in the pants and is balancing himself to insert his other leg, but his reaction to Ian’s announcement throws off his balance and Ian has to grab his arm. “We’re buying you a new wardrobe right fucking now, Ian.”

“Okay, Mickey,” Ian agrees sitting down on the bench seat. “Come here.” He pulls Mickey forward by the belt loop until his groin is close to Ian’s face. “I’ll get the zipper for you.” As he finds the zipper tab, Mickey’s hand finds Ian’s shoulder and his fingers press up and into Ian’s hair. The zipper starts sliding slowing upwards but then Ian pauses and looks up at Mickey. “I know you said this isn’t the time or place for it, but I mean if we were to engage in anything of the sexual nature, we wouldn’t have to worry about making a mess because you know that I swallow, right? All of it.”

“Ian,” Mickey hisses tilting his hips toward Ian’s mouth.

Ian stands up, closing the zipper and looping the button with total efficiency. “Try to focus Mickey or we’ll be here all damn day.”

Grabbing a trim fit button down in black and grey rain-streaked camo, Ian holds it out like a manservant so his thoroughly disgruntled husband can slide his arms in. He steps up behind Mickey and once again they face the mirror. Ian smooths his hands over the material at Mickey’s shoulders then down his chest and begins buttoning the silky shirt for him. Ian’s mouth is close to Mickey’s ear, so he adjusts his breathing until it resembles the sound Mickey hears when Ian is fucking him, slowly.

This of course doesn’t just mess with Mickey’s state of mind, but Ian is now feeling the results of his teasing, so he lightly rubs himself against Mickey’s ass and Mickey’s eyes shoot up from watching Ian’s hands button his shirt to find and lock on Ian’s eyes in the mirror. Ian stares hard into Mickey’s eyes until he feels his husband’s heart beat faster under his fingers and his hips push back into Ian’s.

“You look good enough to eat,” Ian muses, licking his lips once. Then he steps back and circles around to face Mickey, looking at the shirt with his efficient, assessing look. “Tuck or no tuck?”

Flustered, Mickey just scowls. “How the fuck should I know? That’s why you’re here,” he barks and looks down at the shirt and pants and the full-on boner he’s sporting. “More like fuck or no fuck?”

Ian can’t stop himself from pressing his lips to Mickey’s pout, but he pulls away before Mickey can respond. “Well, I hate to say this, but I really think we need to _tuck_. Yeah,” he says lifting the hem of the shirt to reveal not only the trouser front but a good portion of Mickey’s soft belly. “We really, really need to tuck.” He tips his head to the side catching Mickey’s gaze. “Do you want to do the tucking or should I?”

“I can tuck myself, dumbass.” Mickey drawls.

“Yes, you certainly can. I’ll just watch then,” Ian agrees and steps aside resting his shoulder against the fitting room wall, so Mickey has a clear view of himself in the mirror. As he slips his hands into his pants to smooth the material, Ian rakes his eyes up and down Mickey’s body, lifting his eyebrows, flaring his nostrils and rubbing a hand once down the front of his own jeans.

“Stop eye fucking me, Ian.”

“I think you mean eye tucking?” Ian’s grin is like another light bulb has turned on in the small fitting room, he’s so proud of himself. Mickey gives his a nearly imperceptible nod of approval, so Ian reaches out to help Mickey finish with the trousers.

“Don’t come near this fucking zipper, man.”

Ian turns away with a grin and grabs a charcoal tie with tiny flecks of blue. “I got us matching ties. Mine has green flecks,” Ian explains.

“Aren’t you clever,” Mickey responds distracted with getting the zipper to close comfortably around the still evident bulge in his pants.

When Ian turns back to see Mickey fully dressed, his heart does that constricting thing again, and it must show in his face as Mickey looks away quickly but then peeks up through the corner of his eyes.

“After the wedding, I’m gonna rip those clothes off you cause you are so damn hot.”

“Tuck off,” Mickey blurts in semi-embarrassment.

Reaching out, Ian wraps the tie around Mickey’s neck, then pulls him closer with it until he’s able to cross the ends of the tie in preparation for his bowline knot. But he notices the color in Mickey’s cheeks and the nearly frantic movements of his bottom lip, so Ian pulls the two ends of the tie tight until he’s constricting Mickey’s airway just enough to get his attention.

Their eyes meet and Ian moves in closer until their lips are almost touching. When he releases the pressure, Mickey sucks in a gulp of air while Ian breathes into his mouth.

Mickey’s hands shoot out to grab at Ian’s waist and pull him closer, turning his head slightly to view their profiles in the mirror. He closes the distance between them and presses himself into Ian. They just stand there like that, pressed together, breathing together. Mickey’s hands tight around Ian’s waist; Ian’s hands grasping Mickey’s tie.

Ian chuckles breathily. “You’re too close, baby. I can’t even see the tie anymore.” With gentle pressure to his chest, he pushes Mickey a step back, regathers the ends of the tie and smiles brightly at Mickey. “The rabbit hops over the log,” he chants to the beat of the children’s rhyme as he begins to loop the tie.

“The rabbit crawls under the log,” Mickey continues as Ian creates another loop.

“The rabbit runs around the log, one more time,” the say together and Ian makes the remaining motions to complete the knot thanks to Yev’s very brief Boy Scout adventure in tying ties.

“Dumbass.”

“Hot ass.”

“Stop it.”

“Look at your ass in the mirror, Mick.”

“No way, man.”

Ian runs his hand slowly over Mickey’s ass cheek, watching his progress in the mirror. “Mmm, seriously, look,” he purrs.

“Ian,” Mickey complains, but his eyes shift of their own accord. He watches Ian’s hand run over the full shape, pressing into the flesh. They both stare momentarily mesmerized as Ian’s fingers press deeper, both men thinking about what Ian’s fingers are capable of, were in fact capable of that morning before the sun came out.

Pulling away, Ian turns them one last time toward the mirror to admire the new outfit. It fits perfectly accentuating where it should. The somber color and pattern fitting naturally with his badass husband. The tiny bits of blue not competing with those expressive eyes.

“Well, Ian, even I can see that you know what the fuck you’re doing with clothes, man. Gay motherfucker.” But he winks at Ian which is, Ian is convinced, code for all the things he doesn’t know how to say.

Looking at Mickey, he gets all chocked up and his eyes get all soft and dewy, of course. Mickey frowns. “Stop it, man. You’re getting all mushy over a fucking piece of cloth.”

“No, I’m getting all mushy over the man inside the piece of fucking cloth,” Ian counters then smooths his hands over the tie and the front of the shirt. He frowns. “You need a belt.”

“I got a belt at home.”

“You’ve had that thing since you were a menace to society. Time for a new one.” Ian steps away pleased as punch with his work here today. Mickey looks hot as hell and he had a good fucking time trying on clothes. “I’ll go grab one and meet you at the checkout just around the corner.”

 

When Mickey arrives at the checkout, Ian is waiting in line behind a grey-haired woman wearing too much perfume who needs to discuss with the clerk each article of clothing she is purchasing. Mickey bounds up behind him and whacks his arm into Ian’s lower back. Ian smiles. Affectionate Mickey.

He looks down at his happy, content husband and realizes he loves this Mickey just as much as the prickly one if the tightening in his chest is any indication. Tilting his head down to Mickey’s ear, he confesses, “I was totally trying to fuck you in the fitting room.”

“Duh. You weren’t subtle, man,” he replies distracted. Mickey looks away, his nose twitching and mouth moving.

“What's up?”

“Um, maybe I need some new t-shirts, Ian.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Let’s go take a look,” Ian responds casually, wondering if he’s just created a shopaholic before adding, “But I’m _not_ going to fuck you in the fitting room.”

Mickey stops in front of the men’s briefs and runs his finger down the front of a bright yellow pair of push up boxers. Sliding them off the pile, he moves to the matching ice blue tank top. With both items in his hand, he turns to Ian with that smile. Yeah, the one he only gets to see a few times a year, the one that could stop Ian’s world from turning. The one that only shows itself when Mickey is absolutely happy. “Pick me some shirts, Ian,” he says over his shoulder, moving toward the fitting room.

Ian needs to get his wits about him to pick some shirts but all he can imagine is what is going to be waiting for him when he opens the fitting room door. The Addicted briefs and tank top clinging to his husband’s body, and if there’s a god, he’ll still be wearing that smile. But only until Ian can get the briefs off of him and then--

Ian is ripped from his reverie by the accusing eyes of the lone Macy’s employee wandering the aisles. He follows her gaze to his hand buried in the pile of silky underwear and realizes he had been standing there practically jerking off in the men’s underwear area.

“Um, the cotton blend is important in a men’s brief,” he mumbles and nods to the middle-aged woman who continues walking with a quick look over her shoulder. This shopping thing was gonna be the death of him.


	2. Reason # 2 - They Forgive Easily

“You’re under my skin.”

 

 

The stupid fucking techno repetitive club music pounding in Mickey’s skull is gonna make him homicidal in about one minute. He’s trying to weave his way through a wall of mostly gay men to get back to Ian, who was flailing around on the dance floor when Mickey left to take a piss. After a couple of minutes in the blissful peace and fucking quiet of the dirty bathroom, he was going mental under the strobe lights, pulsing music and drunken pervs getting handsy.

Ian, he thinks. He’s here because Ian needs this sometimes. Music, dancing, letting loose. Mickey can take it for awhile as long as he’s pressed up against Ian and feeling the effects of both Ian’s tight body and the warm embrace of Jack Daniels. But three fucking hours later, he’s at his limit, ready to drag Ian out of here for some good old-fashioned fucking in the quiet of their apartment.

Where the hell did he get to? Mickey’s eyes scan the crowd, knowing Ian is always easy to find. He’s a bright shiny beacon with this height, hair and smile, a haven in the storm. Mickey, on the other hand, is the anti-beacon, scowling and irritated, the storm itself.

Ian’s smiling face comes into view. He looks blissed out and lost in the music and his movements, which would fuck Mickey up if he was on the dance floor with him, but as quickly as he sees Ian he sees two other guys pressing themselves against his boyfriend, one behind and one in front. He sees a hand grasping the back of Ian’s thigh and another on his shoulder.

Mickey is frozen. He doesn’t know how to move forward from this moment. His early life experiences tell him to fucking kill somebody. To retaliate with his hands and his words. To drag Ian by his stupid fucking hair off the dance floor, then smash his fists into the fucking bimbos who have their dirty hands on him. But his experiences since being with Ian are retraining him to consider shit before going postal.

His breathing is so labored his mouth and throat are dry, and it’s making it impossible to get a full breath into his lungs. Fuck, he’s just standing rooted to the floor in the middle of the path blocking fucking servers, but his feet aren’t working because he damn well knows if he moves he’ll hurt someone. Bad.

Focus on something else. He tries counting to ten but the numbering just reminds him of Ian’s color coded to-do lists scattered all over the apartment. Tears push into the back of his eyes. Squeezing them closed and releasing a slow breath through his mouth, he tries reciting the sales pitch he’s put together for the new Glock on the market, but that just reminds him of how hot Ian thinks it is when Mickey talks about guns. His mind conjures up a memory of Ian laying on the bed, calling his name playfully and asking him to bring his gun to bed.

Mickey’s eyes open and he realizes the problem is that Ian is everything; he can’t focus elsewhere because there is no elsewhere that doesn’t fucking include Ian. So, in a moment of clarity, he decides to just calmly walk up to the dancing idiot and tell him it’s time to go. Simple. No need for fucking dramatics. This ain’t the of end of the goddamn world.

But then he looks at the dancers.

Ian’s pale hand lightly lands on some asshole’s bare bicep. It moves up the muscled arm and over the guy’s shoulder before lifting again into the air to twist around Ian’s face. That small, probably careless, touch fucks with Mickey more than all the gyrating and grinding ever could.

Ian, his Ian, just put his hand on another guy.

Now there’s just rage that needs a target. There’s no option to consider. He zeroes in on the dancers and allows the tightness in his chest to release outward, the vicious energy spreads to his hands and feet and mouth. He stalks Ian with his eyes and when he reaches him, his hand shoots out and tangles in the front of his shirt, pulling him savagely from between the dancers.

As Ian stumbles behind Mickey, the hand grasping the shirt releases and forms a fist. Mickey’s body crouches and his feet spread bracing to smash his hand into bone, to release some of the rage.

But before he can make contact, 165 pounds of weight attaches itself to his fist. Mickey turns his head to see Ian’s arms wrapped around his forearm, pulling Mickey’s fist toward his chest. Yanking out of Ian’s grasp, he gives his boyfriend a death glare before turning back to the dancers, who have disappeared onto the crowded dance floor.

The rage inside Mickey’s chest needs a mark. He turns to Ian, locks eyes with him, emotions akin to hate and disgust and betrayal play across his features, and Ian presses a hand to his stomach in the way he always does when he’s overwhelmed. A tiny part of Mickey’s brain responds to this and must soften his face because Ian steps forward and places his hand on Mickey’s arm.

All Mickey can see is Ian’s hand on some twink motherfucker’s arm. “Don’t fucking touch me,” he threatens, pulling his arm away from Ian’s touch like the fingers disgust him. Stalking past his devastated boyfriend, Mickey decides that if the redheaded asshole isn’t hot on his heels when he gets outside, he’ll burn this motherfucking building to the ground.

By some miracle, a taxi sits idling at the curb since Mickey doesn’t know what he’d do with the anger throbbing in his veins if he was stuck standing outside this stupid fucking club for a minute longer.

He opens the taxi’s backdoor and turns to Ian, who hesitates, obviously unsure if he should get in the cab. Mickey jabs his finger at the cab’s interior and Ian hustles inside.

The ride home is excruciatingly tense. Ian is crying softly on one side of the cab’s back seat and Mickey is seething on the other side, unable to release any of the hurt or anger because they’d end up having to walk back to their goddamn apartment.

When they finally reach their place, Mickey throws some money in the cabbie’s hand and leaves Ian to trail behind him yet again. Kicking off his shoes, he can hear Ian enter the apartment and take a deep breath. Knowing this sound means Ian is about to say something, he turns to him and cautions, “Don’t open your fucking mouth.”

As much as he hates himself as he hears those words leave his lips, he also feels some of the fury leave with them because the words hit their mark. Ian’s heart.

But that makes Ian’s need to explain stronger. “Mickey, I wasn’t--,” he pleads, voice hoarse.

“I can’t even stand to look at you,” Mickey interrupts, his throat closing as he realizes the size of the gap that has opened between him and Ian. He can’t figure a single fucking way to close it. But instead of using the moment to talk to Ian, he focusses in on the frustration and anger and fuels it with more thoughts of how Ian’s betrayal has started all this.

Backing away, his gaze collides with Ian’s red rimmed, wet and scared eyes. Scared. This confuses Mickey’s emotions further. He can’t just wallow in righteous anger, instead he has to filter it through guilt and shame over how much he’s hurting Ian, pissing him off more. Running his eyes over Ian and shaking his head, he spits out, “You’re a fucking tramp.” Looking away before Ian can react.

He worries his lip with his index finger, then decides walking away is the best option he’s got. But storming into the bedroom lights his anger on fire. The goddamn sheets on the bed tangled together and Ian’s fucking pillow resting on his side of the bed.

Grabbing the pillow in both hands, he wants to rip the thing in half, but his hands have other ideas and bring the pillow up to his face. He inhales, his heart yearns a little. But immediately his vicious one-track mind pictures Ian tangled in those sheets with another guy. His hands all over the guy’s body.

Stalking back to the bedroom doorway, Mickey sees Ian still standing where he’s been since they entered the apartment, and Mickey wants him to lose his shit too. He wants him to yell and accuse Mickey of things, so this can become a real fight. He hurls the pillow at Ian. It slides across the coffee table, knocking the gun magazines and remotes to the ground before stopping at Ian’s feet.

“You can sleep out here,” Mickey commands. He starts to turn back to the bedroom, but there’s still poison that needs to be injected. “Or go find someone else to fuck.”

The bedroom door slams so hard that Mickey hears something smash to the floor in the living room. Damn it, damn it, damn it, Mickey chants in his mind.

With the slamming signalling the end of the fight, at least on his part, he’s left feeling plain old fucking sad. But he can’t find it in himself to go to Ian. He wants to undo everything that has happened but his body won’t obey. Laying down on the bed, it’s now apparent that he has not only denied himself Ian, he’s denied himself Ian’s pillow.

 

At 5:15 am, Mickey illuminates his phone to check the time then sweeps the light over the other side of the bed. Ian did in fact sleep on the couch, or at least Mickey hopes that’s the option Ian picked. Naturally, the four hours of sleep have cleared away the unreasonableness of his jealousy, but in its place is regret and a healthy does of fear. He’d said some seriously fucked up shit to Ian last night. Now he was gonna need to undo those words.

In his t-shirt and boxers, he cracks the door open not wanting to wake Ian if he’d managed to sleep. Although if he knows his boyfriend, he didn’t get any sleep. The couch is empty and Ian’s pillow is still on the floor where it landed the night before. Mickey feels the fingers of panic grip his neck.

The bathroom door is open and the light is off, same with the little kitchen area. As he makes his way through the living room, he sees the framed picture of the two of them on their first trip to Mexico sitting on the kitchen table. The missing glass more evidence of his violence, he scolds himself.

All that remains to be searched of their apartment is the balcony. Ian is laying on the folded-out recliner, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Mickey steps outside and looks down at his boyfriend who immediately opens his eyes. Then kicks in the foot rest so he can stand.

Ian’s eyes search his looking for where Mickey is in his anger. He must see something positive because he blurts out, “I made pancakes. They’re keeping warm in the oven.” He nods vigorously and pulls the blanket tighter. “Are you hungry?”

Mickey nods back at him like they’re a pair of fucking mute parrots, “Always hungry for pancakes.”

While Ian gathers the warming pancakes and plates, Mickey gets the cutlery and syrup. They move tentatively around each other. Not avoiding touching but not ready for what touching would mean.

“Chocolate chips, huh?” Mickey chides, filling his mouth. Ian just smiles, and Mickey knows he is trying to contain his words, emotions, touches but most especially his need to push Mickey too fast. After finishing his second pancake and watching Ian try to get through one, he tightens the foil around the remaining food and stands up. “I need a shower,” he announces, and again Ian just smiles tightly but now looks like he’s going to let lose the waterworks. “How ‘bout you?” Mickey tilts his head toward the bathroom and Ian shoots up from this chair.

With some slightly awkward undressing as they each try their best to accommodate the other man, they step into the shower. Mickey watches Ian pull the curtain closed, while the spray from the shower pounds into his tense neck and shoulders. After a few moments, he steps out of the spray and motions for Ian to warm himself up.

Squirting shampoo into his hand, Mickey rubs his palms together to build up a lather then places them on the firm, pale chest he loves so much, rubbing up and over his collarbone and shoulders, down his arms.

“I’m sorry, Mickey,” Ian pleads, his body is vibrating with the need to be understood. But he won’t bring his hands up to touch Mickey until he knows he’s welcome. Mickey feels the shame in that.

“It’s already forgotten,” Mickey promises, feeling Ian’s intake of breath.

“I, I was thinking of you the whole time,” Ian chokes out. “And I’m not gonna drink when we go out clubbing anymore.”

“Yeah?” Mickey smiles, wondering if he even wants that. Fun, tipsy Ian pawing Mickey all night is what makes it all bearable. “Okay, then I’m gonna read an anger management book or some shit. Maybe get the movie version of the book.” He massages the remaining suds into Ian’s hair.

Titling Ian’s head toward the spray, he continues, “You know you’re not the only one who’s got something to apologize for, right?” His hands skim over the red hair turned dark by the water. “The shit that came outta my mouth was outta fucking line. I was a prick and I’m fucking sorry.”

Stepping out from under the water, Ian switches places with Mickey. “So you don’t think I’m a tramp?”

“No more than I think I’m a lady.” This makes Ian laugh for the first time. “Now would you fucking touch me, Ian?” he demands.

Ian tips his head until his lips touch Mickey’s. They press their mouths together and pause just breathing and feeling the warm water fall around them, washing away the grime.

Mickey pulls Ian closer, pressing their bodies together as closely as their lips. As they allow themselves this unguarded moment of exposed emotion, their hips rock in unison. When the kiss becomes more urgent, Ian’s hand slides between them, stroking their erections and fusing them together.

Pulling back from the kiss, Mickey looks down at Ian’s hand covering them, stroking them, pleasuring them. Ian’s hand that heals people all day, then comes home to hold Mickey, to caress Mickey, to fuck Mickey. Ian’s hand that he finds in the night to help him sleep.

He can feel Ian’s lips nuzzling his temple and his other hand cradling his skull. Mickey rests his weight against Ian’s chest, covers Ian’s hand with his own and closes his eyes.


	3. Reason #3 - They Support Each Other

“It means we take care of each other.”

 

“It says to dip the fat round brush into the titanium white paint. Then pick up a small amount of the yellow oxide. Decide where you want your light source to be on the canvas—,” Ian reads slowly and precisely from the booklet he’s holding.

“Why we got so many fucking brushes, Ian?” Mickey cuts off Ian’s instructions to complain. “Which one is the fat round brush? This one or this one?” He picks up two brushes from the kitchen table and frowns at them.

“I think this one. It’s fatter, right?” Ian is smiling pleasantly but the smile may not be completely reaching his eyes. They were only about five minutes into this painting tutorial, and there was a good chance that it may be the event that instigates their divorce.

It's early Saturday morning and Yev is coming to spend the rest of the weekend with them, fully expecting to see two new paintings hanging above the fireplace next to the “Midnight Raven” he’d painted at school. When he asked them to paint something, they had explained that they didn’t have his skill, so he had given his two dads each a Midnight Raven painting kit complete with canvas, table top easel, acrylic paints and brushes. Now Mickey and Ian were sitting side by side at the kitchen table easels propped up in front of them, putting paint to canvas for the first time since elementary school.

“Fucking fine,” Mickey grouses and puts down the smaller brush. “So what do I do now?”

Ian turns to look at Mickey with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Seriously? I just told you.”

“All I heard was fat brush. You wasted your breath after that, man,” Mickey responds dismissively, turning to Ian with raised eyebrows and tilted head. “You want me to put my brush somewhere, I think you said. I got a few ideas of where I could stick it.”

“ _Stick_ it in the white paint then _stick_ it in the yellow paint then put the fucking paint on the canvas. Simple enough for you?” Ian counters, spreading pale yellow paint around his own canvas attempting to decide where his light source should be.

“Maybe you could draw me a picture?” Mickey proposes, his voice lifting in hope as he continues. “In fact, yeah, why don’t you just paint the fucking thing and tell little man it was me. But make it look different from yours. Better than that.” His chin lifts toward Ian’s canvas.

“How would that be fun for me?” Ian scoffs, he adds a little more yellow and frowns at the canvas. Was this supposed to look like the moon?

“You got us into this fucking mess. Telling Yev we’d paint pictures like we’re a pair of goddamn gay Picassos or who the fuck ever.” Mickey is still watching Ian, frown deepening. Although Ian isn’t sure if it’s because he’s frustrated with the project or disgusted by Ian’s artwork. Ian’s not sure about his feelings either.

But then Mickey turns back to his own canvas and announces, “I want my light source right fucking here.” He pokes his white canvas and smooshes pale yellow paint around the center of the picture.

“You were paying attention, you little shit,” Ian accuses when he realizes Mickey heard him. All he gets is a smirk in response.

Together they finish their first circle which is supposed to represent the moonlight. Neither man is happy with what they see on their canvas. Ian looks down at the booklet open on the table beside him, “It says to use gentle pressure to get a soft blend.”

Mickey pokes the tip of his brush against the canvas.

“Gentle pressure, Mick. You’re not trying to murder it.”

“Fuck off.”

With the air starting to charge between them, Ian decides to move this fiasco along. He reads the next step, “Continue making circles adding more yellow each time.” They dip their brushes in the white then the yellow paint and again Mickey pokes at the canvas trying to get the paint where he wants it but he’s getting frustrated.

“This is stupid,” he protests and tosses the brush on the palette. Grabbing his pack of cigarettes, he announces, “I’m outta here.”

“What? No!” Ian turns to give him shit for flaking out so soon, but Mickey’s scowl stops him short. It’s not the usual “the world annoys me” scowl; it’s the less common “the world scares me” scowl.

Ian stands up and steps over to Mickey’s chair, lifting a leg and sliding in to sit behind the grumpy artist. Mickey throws the smoke pack back on the table and leans into Ian, relaxing a little. Ian smiles and taps the tip of his fat brush against Mickey’s canvas. “Pick up your brush, Mick. We promised Yev.”

“I didn’t promise shit, man,” Mickey counters but picks up his brush. “What do we do?”

Reviewing the steps, Ian explains, “We wanna make circles around the centre circle. Over and over again and each circle is gonna get darker until the last circle which is black.”

“And that’s gonna make it look like a fucking spooky sunset like in the picture?” Mickey’s left hand is absently massaging Ian’s thigh and his head is turned slightly so his ear is close to Ian’s mouth as he speaks.

“Yeah, get some yellow on the tip too?” Ian demonstrates with his brush.

“Talking dirty to me, Ian?”

“Rub your tip against the canvas, baby. Gently.”

Together, they swirl their brushes around Mickey’s canvas. Ian reaches forward to add more paint to his brush, his palm running down the length of Mickey’s arm. As the paint hits the canvas, his other hand traces the inseam of Mickey’s jeans. When Mickey shifts slightly in the chair and his lower back presses against Ian, he nudges Mickey’s ear with this nose.

The off-white center eventually gets darker as the circle expands, the yellow spreading from the color of French fries to the color of lemons.

“Okay, now we want to start adding the purple to the white instead of the yellow,” Ian explains a little breathily and they watch as the darkening circle takes shape on the canvas.

Dabbing his brush in the purple paint, Mickey asks, “Do you remember painting shit in school?” His free hand lands on top of Ian’s and his fingers twine.

“Yeah, sure,” Ian answers thoughtfully, trying to recall specific art classes. He chuckles. “I remember the girl beside me in, like, grade 2 or something drew a picture of her mom pole dancing. Mrs. Simmons had a fit. Remember her? Scary bitch.”

“Big tits?” Mickey asks.

Ian laughs again. “That’s her.”

“You liked art?”

“Well, it was better than math and writing but not as fun as gym. But it was one of the few times that Frank ever even noticed that I was around. For some reason, he liked to discuss the merits of my artwork when I’d bring it home,” Ian remembers. “Now that I think about it, he was probably drunk. So never mind. How ‘bout you?”

Mickey is quiet and his brush is hanging between his legs. “Mick?”

“Just fucking paint. Stop all the chit chat,” his voice hard. The brush in his hand starts scraping at the canvas angrily. Ian lays his brush along the palette edge and places his hand over the back of Mickey’s slowing his movements.

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Fuck you.”

“I love you.”

“Double fuck you.”

Ian laughs and the puff of air swirls over the back of Mickey’s neck. He swivels enough to meet Ian’s lips, turning quickly away and sighing. “It’s no big deal. Just a dumb memory.”

Guiding their hands to the paint palette, Ian loads up on white and purple paint, bringing it back to the colorful mess they are creating together. His other hand snakes around Mickey’s waist, bringing Mickey’s hand with him.

“I painted a fucking bird picture once too. Like some little reddish motherfucker in a nest,” he continues, breathing deeply. Ian can feel the change in pattern under his arm. “Weird. I was pretty excited to bring it home, just like little man. Maybe even pictured it hanging up or some stupid shit like that.”

There’s silence for awhile as the moonlit sky takes shape on the canvas. Ian is trying his best to wait Mickey out rather than push him to say too much too soon or worse to hug him and kiss him and tell him everything will be all right.

“It didn’t get hung up nowhere. That’s for sure.” Mickey’s voice sounds strained. Ian’s hand travels from his husband’s waist to rest over his heart, applying calming pressure to the racing beneath his finger tips. “It was the last time I saw my mom.”

“Fuck,” Ian breathes. His eyes fill and he squeezes them shut to stop himself from allowing too much emotion to leak out. That’s the best way to scare Mickey back into his shell.

“Anyway, she left in an ambulance and I cut up the painting with one of Terry’s fucking bowie knives,” he concludes and lifts his shoulder in a shrug signalling his nonchalance and his desire to end the story.

“Double fuck you too, Mick,” Ian replies. But his palm flattens against Mickey’s chest lightly pressing his affection and understanding into his husband.

Together, sharing one brush, they apply the final black to the outer edge of the canvas.

“Well, I’ll be goddamned. It’s got like dimension, Ian,” Mickey admits, nodding his head. “I kind a like it.”

Before reading the next step, Ian lays a kiss on the back of Mickey’s neck, kind of pleased with their team work as well. “Now it says we need the half inch fan brush and we gotta make the branch that the bird is sitting on using the black paint.”

Mickey looks aghast at the idea. “We’re supposed to put a black swipe across the middle of this! What if we fuck it up?”

“Then we’ll figure out how to fix it,” Ian offers.

“Together, yeah?”

“Always.”

They each dip a flat fan shaped brush into the black paint. Mickey takes a deep breath and after glancing briefly at the sample picture, puts the edge of the brush against the canvas. He hesitates and Ian rests his chin lightly on his shoulder. Mickey slides the brush across the colorful canvas in an uneven path. When he gets most of the way across the surface, he pulls his hand back. “Huh!”

“Yeah, wow. That totally looks like a tree branch.” Their smiling cheeks press together briefly. Ian pulls back. “My turn to add some little branches.”

Ian takes his own deep breath, feeling some of the anxiety that had plagued Mickey earlier and hesitating to not only mess up the pretty sweet moonlight sky they created but also fuck up Mickey’s branch. “We can fix it, Ian. It’s cool,” Mickey assures him, left hand flipping up and down in his impatient “get the fuck on with it” gesture that’s almost as common as the upturned middle finger.

Knowing Mickey is back to his old impatient, abrasive self, Ian slashes the brush against the canvas where he thinks the first small branch should be. Then pulls his arm back to assess. “Okay, yeah, a couple more.”

“Not bad,” Mickey agrees. “This is kinda fun.”

Then they look at all that’s remaining of the painting, the raven sitting on the branch. “I ain’t doing the fucking bird,” Mickey declares with finality.

“Let’s read the instructions. Maybe it’s not as hard as it looks.”

“Fine. But I’ll read them. I can’t pay attention when you’re fucking reading. You talk like you’re trying to put me to sleep. Or like I’m fucking retarded, man,” Mickey gripes. Ian pokes the black tip of the brush against Mickey’s cheek. “Hey, motherfucker.”

Mickey swipes his brush through the purple and licks it along Ian’s arm. Ian reaches forward to grab the paint palette before Mickey can get more paint. He snatches Ian’s paint brush from his hand and jumps up from the chair, racing around the other side of the kitchen table, the paint brush held out like a weapon.

Swiping his finger through the yellow paint, Ian stalks Mickey around the table. Once all the way around. They are at an impasse, staring at each other across the tops of their easels. Ian turns back to the raven painting, setting the palette back on the able. “Come here, Mickey,” he coaxes, beckoning Mickey with an arched yellow index finger. “You can trust me.”

Their eyes meet and hold. “Yeah, I can,” Mickey admits and closes the three steps between them to wrap his arms around Ian’s neck. His lips push into Ian’s and slowly his body rubs up Ian’s length as he lifts to his toes a little to get a fuller connection between their mouths.

Ian’s arms come around Mickey’s back in surprise and he kisses his husband back like his life depends on it. Maybe in fact it does. Cause if he ever had to live without this, he’s pretty sure that he would no longer be truly living.

They pull apart just enough that they aren’t touching and Mickey says, “Gimme the goddamn instructions. Let’s get this shit done.”

While Mickey reads over the remaining directions, Ian suggests, “Let’s each do a bird.” Mickey nods his assent, pulling Ian to sit in front of him. Getting comfy, Ian adds, “They can be sitting side by side, like love birds.”

“Don’t ruin the moment, shithead.”

When Yev arrives a couple hours later, the Love Birds are hanging next to the Midnight Raven in a place of honor above the fireplace.

 

Mickey wakes up to the gentle rocking of the bed. It’s still dark, hours left before the sun will be up. He’s laying on his side away from Ian, but he knows that rocking motion well. Sometimes he’s the one causing it, sometimes like now it’s Ian.

Reaching down to cup himself and finding the same rhythm as his husband, he figures they might as well both be making the bed rock. Ian’s hand finds his hip and skims over the skin, leaving tendrils of pleasure along its path. Then disappears.

The bed shifts for a moment and a bottle of lube appears above Mickey’s hand, liquid pooling in his now open palm. They resume their rhythm, silent except for short puffs of breath.

Eventually, Ian makes his way to his side and shapes himself around Mickey’s body. His knuckles sliding along Mickey’s lower back with each stroke of his hand. Mickey presses himself into Ian and slides a foot between his shins.

Ian breaths his name and Mickey turns his head on the pillow until his ear is next to Ian’s mouth. The next time he whispers his name, his lips are caressing Mickey’s ear, his teeth snagging the lobe and biting lightly. The moan that seeps from deep inside Mickey speeds up Ian’s hand and sends his tongue under the ridge of Mickey’s ear.

“Close,” Mickey sighs. Their movements lightly knock the headboard against the wall. Ian leans forward to lay his lips on Mickey’s stubble, rubbing against the prickles, and Mickey turns his body enough for their lips to meet. When Ian’s tongue pushes into his mouth, they both come, covering Mickey’s stomach.

Mickey opens his eyes, meeting Ian’s amused gaze. “Now, I’m covered in fucking cum,” he complains. “Again!”

“That’s cause you’re our canvas, baby,” Ian teases, but then tilts his head to look closer at the masterpiece on his lover’s belly. “It’s like those psych test pictures where you have to explain what you think the inkblots look like.”

“Yeah? You gonna psycho-analyze our cum now?” he lifts his head off the pillow to glance down at his belly. “So whadya see?”

Ian shifts until he is laying between Mickey’s legs, his face hovering over the slick design. “Well, it looks like you and me, it looks like us,” he decides chin in his hand. “How’s that for analysis?”

“Deep.”

“I’m proud of you,” Ian says softly not meeting Mickey’s eyes.

“For coming?” Mickey asks, flicking a finger against Ian’s forehead.

“That painting was a big deal for you, and I’m proud of you for finishing it,” Ian explains while running his finger through the sticky puddle on Mickey’s belly. With a slight frown, Mickey watches Ian’s fingers move while he absorbs Ian’s words and smiles a little.

Eventually he notices the pattern Ian is making. First the shape of an “L” then the “O” then the “V”.

The smile gets a little bigger. “Get your ass up here.”

Ian drags his body up Mickey’s ruining their masterpiece. 


	4. Reason #4 - They Built a Life Together

“Family? You know.”

 

 

“Ian, that duck better back the fuck off,” Mickey snarls. He’s moving into his fighter position, crouching low, shifting to the balls of his feet. Ian releases the mother of all sighs and steps between Mickey and the six foot duck.

As Ian raises his hands to Mickey’s biceps to hold him in place, he explains, “I don’t think Donald is even looking at you. That’s just how the costume is designed.”

Doubting Ian’s claims, Mickey looks around his shoulder at the furry, rotund duck and narrows his eyes. “Look at how he’s staring at me. He fucking knows what he’s doing, man,” Mickey counters, giving the poor guy stuffed in a hot duck costume the stink eye.

All Ian can do at this point is breathe. It has been a long five days and there are still two more to go before the 17-hour drive home. When he’d had the brilliant idea to start saving up for a family trip to Disney World, he’d had visions of joyfully riding rides and skipping around the happiest place on earth.

He’d gotten into the spirit of planning by enlisting Yev’s help in decorating a savings jar with pictures of their holiday and a label that read “Mickey Mouse”, much to Mickey’s delight. He’d printed off pictures and lists and compared prices and reviews, trying to save money but also show his family a good time. They’d offered to take eight year old Franny with them as a friend for Yev and to give Debs a break from single parenting. Everything had been planned to a T as was Ian’s style; he hated unpredictable, messy situations and worked his ass off to avoid them.

Yet, here he was ready to lose his fucking mind. Mickey’s grouchy behavior, which usually resulted in Ian wanting to bend him offer the nearest surface and give it to him good, had morphed into wanting to bend him over to give him a good spanking. Yev, who was always a trooper, was withered and morose, and Franny—fuck, where was Franny?

“Franny?” he blurts, dropping his hands from Mickey and spinning around. Yev is standing by a display of stuffed Lion Kings, but he’s alone. Ian spins back to Mickey, unsure how to proceed. He can see Mickey’s eyes scanning the crowd but not settling anywhere and just as Ian is about to lose it, Mickey opens his mouth.

“Franny Gallagher, get your ass over here right this minute or I’ll rip you a new one,” he bellows startling every man, woman and child in the vicinity of It’s a Small World.

A table of something called Cootie Catchers wobbles and shifts and a pair of dirty size 10 girls Nike’s poke out from underneath, followed by bruised and scabby legs encased in cut-offs. Ian’s shoulders relax as the adrenaline wanes and a head of overgrown red hair appears.

“Hold on to your shorts, Mickey!” Franny grouses, still on her knees hunched over whatever is in her hand. “I dropped my jaw breaker.”

With this announcement, she holds up the Mega Bruiser jaw breaker that Mickey thought would keep Franny and Yev entertained last night while he and Mick crashed on the hotel bed like a pair of zombies. As she brings it to her mouth, Ian swoops in and grabs it. “Ah, that’s pretty dirty. Let’s wash it, okay?”

Reaching over to the backpack attached to Mickey’s back, he drops the candy into the side pouch and looks at his fingers now sticking together. The water bottles attached to the backpack are both empty and Ian can feel the stress building again. He wanted to pitch his own fit at having to walk around with sticky fingers.

“Dad,” Yev says pulling on the hem of his t-shirt and pointing at the restroom a few feet away. Nodding at the three of them, he gives Mickey a look that says “don’t lose anybody while I’m gone.”

Returning from the bathroom, he sees his little family huddled around the Disney World map. Mickey’s mouth is moving and Yev is nodding slowly as he adjusts the map. Franny is balancing on Mickey’s feet—and sucking on her jaw breaker. Ian decides to let that go, for now.

As he approaches, the trio look up at him and smile; some of the tension drains away. This is why he spent months planning this trip, he reminds himself.

Together, they head toward Tomorrowland Speedway, which has apparently put a skip in Mickey’s step. Yev takes Ian’s hand and Franny continues to ride on Mickey’s feet. Why he puts up with that Ian figures has something to do with his deep appreciation for redheads. Why Franny has such a deep affection for Mickey likely has something to do with his husband being the only person she’s ever met who was tougher than her.

Turns out the Speedway and Space Mountain next to it were fast paced rides that had them all grinning and rehashing the experience in gory detail, until Franny takes a few steps away from Mickey and turns to Ian. She frowns and leans over spewing her lunch on Ian’s shoes.

Ian can only stand there staring at his feet, reluctant to look up because he knows that Mickey is laughing and he’s afraid he’ll do his husband bodily harm in the middle of Magic Kingdom. Again, he feels Yev tug at his t-shirt and Ian follows Yev’s pointed finger to the restroom. Offering any parting remarks, he walks away half hoping that he won’t be able to find them when he returns.

With images of drop kicking Walt Disney floating around his brain, Ian tries not to think about the moisture seeping through to his feet.

After smiling wanly at a revolving door of frazzled dads and overstimulated kids for 15 minutes while he tries to scrub vomit out of his sneakers and dry them with the hand dryer, he steps out of the restroom preparing himself for whatever the rest of the afternoon is gonna throw at him.

Across the walkway, he spots the group laying on a patch of grass. Yev smiles and waves, and Ian crosses toward him appreciating how similar they are. Yev was probably watching the door closely waiting to wave Ian over in fear they would lose him somehow.

Meanwhile, Mickey and Franny are sprawled out and nearly unconscious. She is draped across Mickey’s chest, her head buried in his neck. As Ian flops down between them and Yev, he glances over and sees Franny’s shoulders heave. “What is she doing, Mickey?”

“Sniffing me apparently,” he laughs and lifts his eyebrows at Ian.

“Pardon me?” Ian pulls back slightly in surprise.

“I guess she likes how I smell.” Ian can see the smirk he is trying to control and decides to drop it, for now. The list of things he has to deal with later are piling up.

 

At the end of the day, everyone is still alive, no one got lost and Ian’s shoes are mostly dry. They are leaning against the iron railing watching the Happily Ever After Fireworks show signalling the end of the evening. They can see Cinderella’s castle all lit up and the reflection in the eyes of the kids. Again, Yev is holding Ian’s hand and leaning into his arm; Franny is twined around Mickey’s legs, the remainder of her jaw breaker filling out her cheek.

And much to Ian’s delight and something he’ll be thinking about in his quiet moments for years to come, Mickey’s head is resting on his shoulder. It’s actually perfect and Ian feels the magic of the—

“I gotta poop, right now!” Franny yells up at them, or at least that’s what it sounded like. She pulls the sticky, slick, spit laden jaw breaker out and, without even looking at him, holds it out for Ian. Her eyes, of course, are pinned on Mickey expectantly.

Yev doesn’t even bother to look over at them, just holds out his finger in the direction of the restroom.

“Let’s go then, kid,” Mickey starts walking in the direction of Yev’s finger. “I ain’t cleaning up poopy pants, and Ian is already losing his shit.”

 

The Florida sun filters relentlessly through the curtains of the hotel room pulling Ian from one of the best sleeps he’s had in years. He slides his legs along the crisp sheets while stretching his muscles and slowly opening his eyes to a new day. Pushing aside the knowledge that he was going to be enduring yet another day at a fun-filled theme park, he looks over a Mickey—who isn’t there. His eyes scan the room and notice the adjoining door wide open and no kid related noise coming from the room.

Where the hell is everyone, he wonders tamping down on his immediate need to panic. Mickey is a responsible-ish adult. He glances over at the clock on the night stand. 10:37! His phone isn’t blinking with unchecked messages.

He props himself up against the pile of pillows, reminding himself that he’s relaxed and refreshed. Wondering why he’s freaking out. He could be trying to find parking in the Epcot centre parking lot; he could be saying no to every toy and treat in the park; instead he’s doing absolutely nothing. His eyes start to drift shut again.

“Seriously, there are ashes of dead people all over Disney,” Yev asserts as the door to the hotel room bangs open.

“Bullshit,” Franny says with a sniff.

“Hey, watch your mouth,” Mickey threatens with absolutely no attempt at authority. “Gotta be at least 10 years old to use that word.”

Yev continues, “It’s true. They even have a special vacuum to clean up when people throw ashes.”

“Why the hell would people want to have their ashes spread at Disney World?” Mickey asks as the three of them make their way toward Ian. “They’re hoping to spend eternity in hell, I guess.”

Franny takes a running leap at the bed and somersaults across the comforter, feet dangerously close to Ian’s privates. He pushes her legs back over the edge. “What’s going on? Why didn’t you wake me up?” He looks up at Mickey. “Aren’t we going to Epcot?”

“Nope,” Franny announces, picking up Mickey’s lighter from the night stand. She flicks the flame against her finger dangerously close to lighting her wild mess of hair on fire.

“Jesus, kid,” Mickey grunts, grabbing the lighter from her hand. “We talked about this already.”

“We did?” counters Ian. “When?”

“At the rest stop when we were driving here,” she replies bored with the conversation. She pushes her hand into the plastic bag Mickey is holding and pulls out a king size Snickers bar.

“What is she talking about, Mick?” Ian asks.

“She was trying to light a cigarette with my lighter,” Mickey explains ruffling her hair affectionately, but also pulling the chocolate bar out of her hand. “That’s mine, Fan. Get your own.” He hands her the grocery bag.

“Mickey,” Ian sighs, unsure if he wants to ask more questions about the smoking, the pyromania or the early morning sugar fix. But ends up saying nothing as Mickey is staring at Franny a little awestruck. Ian glances over at her and the way her chin is jutting out, it’s like looking in a mirror—if he were a pre-teen girl.

It’s kind of like getting a glimpse at what his daughter might look like. His eyes shift to Yev, and in his quiet, assessing eyes he also sees himself. Mickey’s hand touches his shoulder and Ian clears his throat because the emotions are getting to him.

The moment is officially broken by Yev’s teacher voice. “Franny, we haven’t had breakfast yet. You shouldn’t eat a chocolate bar.”

She gives Yev a huge smile while ripping the side of the Nestle bar wrapper. Before she can get it in her mouth though, Ian snags it and the grocery bag. “What else is in here? Apples!” He begins handing out an apple to his little family. “So, we have a different plan for today?”

“We’re goin’ to the beach, man,” Mickey announces and the kids cheer in agreement. “No more fucking pavement and beady eyed ducks.”

 

 

Two passed out kids, slightly sun-burned, sprawl on the pull-out sofa in an adjacent room, clothes strewn around the floor, a stack of dinosaur encyclopedias neatly lined up beside a sticky jaw breaker and a flickering screen of cartoon characters turned down low.

On the other side of the closed door, the room isn’t in any better condition but instead of two bodies sprawled side by side, two bodies are sprawled on top of each other. Mickey’s propped on his elbows hovering over Ian’s mouth waiting for a break in his yakking to get a kiss in.

“Did you see Yev’s face when the wave pulled him under?” Ian reflects. “God, and Franny could not have been covered in more sand. Did you see her jaw breaker?” Ian looks at Mickey with wide eyes.

“You a little more relaxed, man?” Mickey teases lightly, squeezing in a kiss.

“Mmm, yeah, we gotta work together more. I can keep us organized and you can keep us having fun,” Ian runs his hands along Mickey’s back.

“Deal.”

Mickey slants his mouth over Ian’s while his hips drive into Ian’s from above.  After a few minutes of frantic rubbing and jagged breathing, they pull apart and smile.

“Are we gonna come just from humping each other?” Ian asks panting softly. He’s looking up at Mickey with his hot gaze and gripping the hips that are pushing into his.

Leaning in for another kiss, Mickey rolls to his side pulling Ian on top of him. Ian continues the rocking motion they have established. Hands grab his ass and pull him closer.

Mickey confirms, “Sometimes I could come just from thinking about you.” When Ian smiles shyly, he knows his words hit home.

“What are you thinking about when this almost happens?”

“Mostly you’re sucking my dick,” Mickey drawls reaching up to nip at Ian’s lip.

“Um, Mick, the idea of dirty talk is to set the mood. Try describing how I was sucking your dick,” Ian suggests as he brings his lip closer to Mickey’s mouth for easier nipping.

“You were, um, sucking my dick,” Mickey is getting distracted from the conversation by the constant pressure on his dick from Ian’s dick while talking about having his dick sucked, “Really fucking good.”

Ian scoffs, “Help me see it. Tell it like a story.”

“Is this fucking English class?” Mickey pulls back from Ian’s mouth to look at his face, checking for seriousness and finds it, much to his dismay. “Okay, fine. But you better keep rubbing yourself against me, man.

“Once upon a time,” he begins and Ian changes up the rhythm of his rocking hips just a little. Mickey grunts and tries to pull Ian down for a kiss but Ian shakes his head. “Once upon a fucking time, a handsome prince named Ian Gallagher was on his knees sucking the dick of the most dashing knight in the kingdom.”

Ian slides down Mickey’s body until his belly is pressed into Mickey’s hard-on. He splatters kisses all over his chest and prompts, “A fairy tale, huh?”

“Sir Mickey was seriously badass. He’d slayed every fucking dragon in the land and there wasn’t a single fairy in the kingdom who didn’t want to suck his dick. But he only had eyes for the prince,” Mickey concludes, grazing his fingers over the textures of Ian.

Sliding down Mickey’s body until his mouth is a breath away from Mickey’s dick, Ian nuzzles his nose against the smooth skin and curling fur. With a sigh, Mickey closes his eyes and waits. But instead of the warm, wet mouth he was expecting, he feels Ian shift away and off the bed.

Shifting up to his elbows and opening his eyes, Mickey is ready to give Ian shit, but he sees him kneeling at the foot of the bed waiting. Mickey slides down the bed until he’s sitting on the edge, a knee on either side of Ian’s hips. Before he can get properly settled his sweet prince is sucking his dick really fucking good.

 


	5. Reason #5 - They Love Each Other

“Does he get that look in his eye?”

 

Nika Milkovich was a tough as nails by most accounts. She may have only been 19 years old, but she could tear an adversary down verbally before they got their wits together enough to realize what hit ‘em. She could hit a mark accurately with 17 different kinds of pistol while maneuvering through an obstacle course. She had a killer jab, jab, cross combination that had gotten her into more trouble than she cared to admit. Her grandmother, Svetlana, had taught her how to wield a tool and strike fear into the heart of any man with only her tone of voice. Her Auntie Mandy had taught her how to wield a cigarette and scorch every idiot around with a single focussed glare. She was born and raised on the Southside of Chicago and proud of it.

But she was a big pile of mush whenever her granddads were together. She had been watching them secretly since she was old enough to have memories and she always watched for the look. It wasn’t until recently that she realized what the look meant, but she’d always known it was special. Probably because of how rare it was.

Looking around the backyard right now, she could see evidence of affection here and there. Her parents were sitting close together sharing a piece of cake cause her mom was always on a diet. Aunt Fi was leaning on the back of Uncle Jay’s lawn chair looking at his phone. Franny had her latest husband with her and they were swaying drunkenly to the cheesy love song Uncle Carl was playing on his wireless speaker system. She knew the basic story of the lives of everyone here, the love stories, the sad stories, the hopeless stories. But Mickey and Ian’s story was her favorite.

 

 

She wakes up with the sun, her mommy always says. Today, the sun is trying to open its eyes just like she is. When she does get them open, she’s met with an accusing look from her stuffed dragon, Martin, who has fallen off the mat onto the floor and is laying at an odd angle. They stare at each other, knowing what the other is thinking. “I love you, too,” she whispers and brings her beloved friend to her chest for a cuddle.

Sitting up together, Nika pushes the comforter off her legs and peeks over the end of the bed. The mat she had been sleeping on feels soft beneath her knees as she rests her chin on the mattress in front of her. Her granddads are laying on the bed facing each other, hands touching between them.

Watching her grandpas sleep for a few minutes, the little girl and the dragon are wondering how long they’ll have to wait for pancakes. One minute is too long in their books.

“Grandpas!” she calls in a stage whisper hiding her face behind the stuffed dragon so they’d think it was him that called. “Wake up!”

Over the dragon’s shoulder, she watches Grandpa Ian lift his head from the pillow and glance at the bright red numbers 5: 55 on the clock beside their bed. With a sigh, he slides a hand along Grandpa Mickey’s arm before turning to Nika with a smile. “Shhh, let’s go make pancakes and let sleepy bones get more rest. We don’t want him to be grumpy.”

“I’m awake, man,” Mickey mumbles half hidden in his pillow.

“Yay!” Nika hollers and flops herself down between them resting her head on Ian’s hip and her feet on Mickey’s hip. “Martin and I are sooo hungry. Can you hear his tummy grumble?” Nika holds the blue dragon up to Ian’s ear, the tail flopping against his face.

“Yes, he is clearly hungry but he also mentioned that he’s tired,” Ian adds with a smile.

Nika watches Grandpa Mickey slide his eyes over Grandpa Ian’s face. “Why do you look at Grandpa like that?”

Mickey’s eyebrows lift slightly as he transfers his gaze to the dark-haired girl who is looking at him with her shrewd, direct eyes. “He’s the love of my life, nosy pants.”

After a moment of thinking about what that means, Nika holds her dragon up and gazes at him with all her heart, focussing every ounce of her love, adoration and devotion into the look.

 

 

“Let’s get this!” Nika yells from her spot in the grocery chart. She’s reaching forward for the marshmallow fluff. “I never get to eat this, but I bet it’s awesome.”

“What the fu—hell is it?” Grandpa Mickey asks, taking the glass jar from her and holding it arm’s length from his face trying to read the label. “Is it food?”

“Course it’s food. It’s marshmallows all mushed up,” his granddaughter looks at him expectantly.

“Ian,” he turns to his husband who is holding an assortment of bagged candy. “You’re up, man.”

“What?” he asks, dropping a bag of M&Ms into the cart beside Nika who nods in approval.

“Marshmallow mush?” Mickey asks shoving the jar into Ian’s hand.

Nika gives Grandpa Ian her best angelic look. In general, he’s the soft touch always wanting to see her smile, while her other Grandpa just doesn’t care about small things like sugar or bedtimes. Basically, she can get away with pretty much anything when she’s hanging out with them. Tonight, they were gonna watch the latest Barbie movie and an old movie called _Terminator_. She was super excited and marshmallow fluff would make it all so much more fun.

“Um, what would we do with it?” Ian is now looking at the jar and squinting to read the fine print.

Grandpa Mickey smiles slightly, but Nika is watching them like a hawk to see if she was gonna be eating fluff or not. “I got an idea,” Mickey says under his breath, stepping a little closer to Ian.

“What?” Nika asks excitedly.

“Nothing,” he replies but now both Grandpas are looking at each other and laughing.

“Been awhile since we did anything like that, Mick.”

“Like what?” Nika demands, eyes switching between the two men. “What are you talking about?”

She watches Grandpa Mickey lift his eyebrows in a swift up and down motion and Grandpa Ian places the marshmallow fluff in the chart never taking his eyes off of the other man.

Nika picks up the jar and looks at the label herself. She doesn’t have trouble seeing the label, but her reading level isn’t up to understanding what it says. But she’s now even more super excited to try it. If her grandpas are this into marshmallow fluff, it’s gotta be awesome.

 

 

After waiting forever for one of her granddads to come help her with her stupid math homework, Nika slams the hateful textbook closed and storms up the stairs to where the two men disappeared. Why the bloody hell would she ever need to know how to multiply fractions for god’s sake. Someone better explain this crap to her!

Her angst-ridden grumbling comes to stop near the bathroom door. “Do you think it’s receding even more?” Grandpa Mickey asks. He’s leaning against the bathroom counter, a hand holding the hair back from his face. “Fuck.”

Grandpa Ian is standing next to him also looking at Mickey’s reflection in the mirror. “Well, maybe, but you’re almost fucking seventy Mickey. Get over it,” he chuckles and slaps the other man’s ass.

“Fuck you, Gallagher. First of all, I won’t be seventy for, like, years. Second, look at that red shit on your head. All still there and barely any goddamn grey,” he grumbles and scowls, dropping his hand but shifting closer to the mirror. Tilting his face a little, he adds, “Jesus, I’m fucking old.”

“Yep, you are,” Ian agrees stepping behind him and wrapping his arms around his waist. “Still fucking sexy as hell though.”

“Shut up,” Mickey chides, but they share a soft look in the mirror. “I love you, you hairy motherfucker.”

“Mmm, I love you too…old man.”

Nika stands in the hallway trying to remember why she was so mad.

 

 

Unable to sleep, Nika makes her way down the stairs toward her granddads’ voices. She’s excited because they are taking her on a surprise trip tomorrow for her sixteenth birthday, and now it’s impossible to sleep.

At the bottom of the stairs, she sees her two favorite guys in the kitchen and stops to watch them. Grandpa Ian is standing at the butcher block island with a whole bunch of papers spread out in front of him, one paper in his hand that he seems to be studying closely. Grandpa Mickey is sitting on the island sipping a beer and watching him.

Nika has been secretly watching them her whole life, cataloguing the nuances of their behavior, for what, she’s still not quite sure. But she knows it’s important. She sits down on the step.

“I’m just a little worried is all,” Ian offers, his voice asking for support.

“I ain’t,” Mickey states. “You been saving and planning and fucking investing for years, man. We’re fine.”

“You’re not scared? No more income for either of us? Ever!” As Ian’s voice rises with each question, Nika’s eyes shift to her other Grandpa, who has looked down as his chest. He slowly unbuttons the top button on his shirt. Nika flicks her eyes back to the other man who has tilted his head to peer over his glasses.

“I mean what if something happens?” Ian asks but the mild panic that was in the earlier questions isn’t present in this question. Grandpa Mickey has undone most of the buttons by now. Grandpa Ian removes his glasses completely and drops them on the pile of papers. “What are you doing?”

Looking up from the buttons on his shirt, Mickey meets Ian’s eyes and smiles a little. “What does it look like I’m doing?” he asks.

“Distracting me?”

“Is it working?”

“Maybe.”

Grandpa Mickey slides the shirt over his shoulders and, as it falls down his arms, he leans back to rest on his elbows. “How ‘bout now?” he purrs.

“What were we talking about?”

Nika can feel the current right down to her toes, so she hightails it back up the stairs, her mind cataloguing like crazy.

 

 

Sitting in a lawn chair with the late summer sun on her face, Nika pulls herself out of the trip down memory lane when the patio doors open and a tall, striking redhead steps outside pausing to scan the crowd of people obviously intent on finding someone.

Nika glances around the backyard at the assortment of people all relaxed and enjoying each other. She can feel the love surrounding her. She spots Grandpa Mickey as he steps up behind Auntie Mandy. She’s rocking her first grandchild, bliss on her face. Grandpa Mickey peers over her shoulder. Whatever he says to her has her scowling at him and he laughs while walking away.

Glancing back toward the patio, her eyes lock with the redhead’s and hold. The feelings she’d been reminiscing about return full force. Each memory she has of her grandfathers’ relationship explodes in her gut when she sees the look in the redhead’s eyes.

The distance between the two of them is gobbled up by the redhead’s long legs. When she’s finally standing in front of Nika, she leans down to press a soft kiss to Nika's lips, “Sorry, I’m late.” 


End file.
